Dancing

I dance last night.  It was the first time since the accident.  After a sushi dinner and a silly movie, I listened to Donna the Buffalo, real hippie music.  It is music of the west, of New Mexico and Arizona and Utah.  It sounds like Taos.  So I put on the music and got up and began to dance by myself.  It was awkward.  The muscles remembered but not completely.  I swung my arms and hopped up and down and twisted and shook.  It made me happy.  But after a short while, I was tired.

I'm going to keep dancing.  Movement, I think, is the key to life.  I will dance alone in the dark like the protagonist in Jim Harrison's "The Man Who Gave Up His Name."  It is a novella in the collection "Legends of the Fall."  It is a damned good story.

But it is not a story for you kids today.  There are bad things in it, the sort of things that are wrong.  The sort of things your parents and teachers have kept you from and taught you to avoid and punish.  It is from the bad old days when people did bad things.  I'm pretty sure you'd be traumatized and have to go to a safe room while you wrote a strongly worded letter to the proper authorities.

Why?  Why do I have to do that?

I get better.  Today I'll do some stretching/yoga and try to peace out.  Hippie shit.  You know.